Tenebris Onere
by ClaireJackson
Summary: "When their child died, she thought she would die too. She lay in the snow for forty-seven minutes before he found her and carried her home. They did not talk about the boy ever again after that." Mulder/Scully. Post-Colonization. MA.


**Author's Notes: **Hey there! I'm going to give fair warning. This story contains some really dark stuff. Please read responsibly. This story is set Post-Colonization. The world as we know it has ceased to exist. No electricity, no running water, no communication. You get the picture. Happy reading! ;)

**Rating: **Strong MA. Coarse language, mature scenes, and generally unpleasant concepts. If you're under 18, please do not read. Thank you.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and the X-Files belong to Chris Carter and the people at Fox. Not using them for any profit.

**Tenebris Onere**

She comes to bed naked. He's been out hunting wild game for the past four days and the first night back is always his hungriest. She doesn't really want to. She just wants to go to sleep for a long time. But that doesn't make any difference. So, when he leaves the cabin for a piss before bed, she slips her thin wool nightgown over her head and folds it on the rocking chair in the corner of the small bedroom. She blows out the candle. She knows that darkness makes no difference for him; if he didn't like it, he would have already told her. By the pale light of the moon, she draws back the patched quilt – one she labored over for a good three months, and slips onto the feather mattress, curling up against the cold. Beside her side of the bed is a small cradle. Wooden, simple. No cute carvings, no painted colours, no rungs. Just a square bassinette. He wasn't very good with wood yet when he made it. Maybe he will make her a new one this time. Her palm folds over the firm roundness of her belly. She's not big yet, just a swelling in her lower abdomen that wasn't there last month. Her eyes glaze over as she looks at the cradle. Their first child only lived three months. Their second, two hours. Their third, ten months and nineteen days. Sickness, weakness, cold, hunger, the terror of childbirth. She rubs her belly. She forces herself to think of something else.

There's the rustle of footsteps outside the bedroom window, the grass hissing as he approaches the log cabin. The slam of the wooden door. His boots across the small living room. She just swept. He crosses the threshold into the bedroom. She didn't close the door; didn't want him to feel rejected in any way. It's his home, his rules, and he's just been out in the woods, braving the harsh weather, to bring them home some food. Once, not too long ago, he killed two men with his bare hands. Two men who came to the cabin while he was away trading goods. Two men who did bad things to her for the entire day he was gone. She shudders. They're dead, she reminds herself. They can't come back. He deserves everything she can give.

She watches Mulder as he strips. His cotton button down and trousers make a soft sound as he tosses them onto the rocking chair, over her nightgown. He shucks his socks and deposits them on the small beside table. Last to come off are his long johns. Nothing underneath but heat and his musky scent.

"Dana," he beckons her, as he slips under the covers. She refuses to be called by her old name. Scully is gone. Gone. The heat that has accumulated since she got in the bed escapes when the quilt is lifted. She turns towards him. Best to come when she's called.  
>His big, warm palms find her breasts immediately. He hums his appreciation at her lack of clothing. He puts his face to hers and she feels the rough tickle of his beard. He hasn't shaved in nearly a week. She seeks out his mouth with her lips, kissing.<p>

"I'm glad you're home," she whispers against his mouth, and it's a quiet admission but an honest one all the same. She is glad to see him, glad for the comfort and protection he brings her. He murmurs into her mouth, breath hot. His fingers slip down, testing between her legs. He doesn't care about a lot of things anymore, but he cares if it hurts. She guesses she should be thankful for that. He finds her dry and so he sets to work, mouth pulling gently on her earlobe and fingers playing in her curls.

She's had enough. Ever since the two men, she doesn't like touching too much. She knows it probably pisses him off but she can't help herself. She grabs his wrist and pulls it up close to her face, where she can see it. With her other hand, she stokes his dick.

"Fuck," he grunts, after half a dozen stokes. He captures her palm in his and jerks it up onto the pillow, holding her down. Her eyes are wide, watching. Her chest heaves up and down. It's him. It's okay. It's Mulder. He won't hurt. He won't hurt.

He parts her legs with his knee. He licks his palm and then wets his cock with it, just in case.

He enters in one, long slide. He's big, and she feels her muscles stretching. After a moment, she relaxes. He feels her stop holding her breath and knows he can move without hurting now. He rocks steadily, his face above hers.

The wooden frame of the bed creaks. She wonders idly if he should make them a new one of those too. He's gotten so much better at working with his hands, the past few years. Colonization and the loss of everything, of cities, electricity, running water, communication, technology, has been completely desolating in some respects, and a great learning experience in others. Mulder could make her a new bed in two days, if he wanted to.  
>He moves harder, his skin slapping hers with every thrust. The quilt falls away from their joined bodies, the cold air puckering her nipples.<p>

Things got rough after the aliens came. She and Mulder were separated for a good three months in the chaos that ensued. She hid out in a small colony, tending to the wounded and surviving because of her value as a medical professional. She doesn't know what happened to Mulder, or where he was for those long first weeks. He still hasn't said a word about it, in four years. All she knows is that one day he showed up at the bunker where she was staying, and demanded she come with him. When the colony leader refused, Mulder shot him dead.

No one else tried to stop him when he ordered her to follow him and then turned and exited the bunker without waiting to see if she would actually come. She had caught up to him outside, and had searched his roughened face for recognition of the man she had known. She found none. She found only hardness, like ice had crusted itself around him. The first weeks back together were bad. He was angry, and she was frightened. It got easier when she got pregnant the first time. Mulder warmed as their child grew inside her. Pieces of the man she used to know came back to shine through his cracks.

When the child died, she thought she would die too. She lay in the snow for forty-seven minutes before he found her and carried her home. They didn't talk about the boy ever again after that.

"F-f-f-f-uck," he exhales harshly through clenched teeth, bringing her back to the present. "Stay with me," he reminds her breathlessly, his eyes liquid for a fraction of a second. His hand caresses her cheek, and she nods. Stay in the present.

He draws up and back to sit on his knees, pushing her legs up for better access. The perpendicular angle encourages him to slide deeper still, and she feels the tip of him poke her cervix. The baby shifts.

"Ah!" She cries softly, reaching up to smooth her hands over his hips. Her palms are slick with sweat. Beads of moisture slip down his sideburns and drop to her belly. At her soft warning, he lets her legs down and slows his pace a bit, his lower lip white as he bites it between his teeth.

He's loud, his rough breathing echoing around the bare room. Mulder pinches her tender nipples between his thumb and index fingers, watching the pale skin pinken under his ministrations.

"Come," he tells her harshly, his thumb slipping down her slicked tummy to rub circles on her clit. "Come, Dana." Doesn't matter what they've been through, doesn't matter that she still wants to die, some days. His voice is her undoing, and after a few more punishing circles of his thumb on her clit, she closes her eyes and explodes. The colour behind her eyelids is bright. Her feet thump against the bed, her fingers twist in the quilt, pushing, pulling, anything to relieve the overwhelming pleasure. Teeth clenched, no sound. Her head thrashes back, neck exposed. The waves crash on the shore, and after a few moments, it's over.

She's boneless against him and he thrusts desperately toward his release. A dozen or so more hard pushes of his hips, and he grinds into her deeply, face falling forward to bury in the pillow beside her head. His hands are tight on her hipbones, on either side of their baby, keeping his weight off. His heat spills into her and he groans tightly, like pain, into her ear.

When it's done he rolls off, pulling up the quilt and curling himself around her. She turns over, her gaze meeting the wood of the cradle again.

Mulder's arm, coarse with dark hair, wraps around her middle, his fingers splayed over the baby. He knows her fears. They are the same as his. But he can't fathom her pain. If he really understood her pain he'd pull out before coming inside her. He'd make sure she never got pregnant again. But she does not blame him. Her pain is pain only a mother could know.  
>Her voice is but a whisper. "My God, I believe in Thee, I hope in Thee, I love Thee above all things with all my soul, with all my heart and with all my strength; I love Thee because Thou art infinitely good and worthy of being loved; and because I love Thee, I repent with all my heart of having offended Thee; have mercy on me, a sinner. Amen." Her voice is hoarse as she repeats the prayer, her eyes glued to the cradle.<p>

She is surprised when he presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, his soft palm rubbing soothing circles on her tummy. In a few moments, his breathing is slow and rhythmic behind her. He is asleep. His skin is warm and comforting against hers. She is happy he is home.

Tomorrow is Sunday. Tomorrow she will de-feather the chickens, and skin the deer he brought home. Tomorrow she will make new candles from the canister of animal fat she's been gradually filling with each animal cooked. Tomorrow she will not try to jump off the rocky cliff a few miles out, because he got so angry the last time she did. Tomorrow she will bring him his lunch as he fixes the wooden fence, and then she will go to the clearing where the sun shines in the afternoon and she will lie down in the warmth on a bed of leaves and pray for her babies.

And she will stay there until he finds her and brings her home.

_Fin._

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for reading. I hope it wasn't too out there for you. I would love to hear what you think - if you have a minute :) Have a good day!


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